


The Violence Inherent in the System

by SouthernContinentSkies



Series: Mirrorverse Barrayar [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Alternate Universe, Book: The Vor Game, Class Dynamics, D/s, Family Issues, Hegen Hub field trip debrief, Impact Play, Kneeling, M/M, Masochism, Mirror Universe, Orgasm Delay, Power Imbalance, Sadism, Voyeurism, authority kink, but Jole enjoys it, dubcon, mentions of Aral/Jole, political jockeying, that glittering tinsel is concertina wire, with sharper edges
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 12:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25969684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernContinentSkies/pseuds/SouthernContinentSkies
Summary: In a feudal society, power imbalance in relationships isn’t a problem, it’s a necessity. But on their way back from the Hegen Hub conflict on the Prince Serg, Gregor still needs convincing that his preferences don’t make him a monster like his father. Fortunately, Prime Minister Count Vorkosigan has just the thing.Mirror Universe AU - these are not the ethical canon characters you’re looking for. Prequel of sorts to Venereal Transmission of Power. Chapter 1 is T-rated Gregor & Aral; Chapter 2 is the Gregor/Jole sex scene.
Relationships: Gregor Vorbarra & Aral Vorkosigan, Oliver Jole/Gregor Vorbarra
Series: Mirrorverse Barrayar [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884874
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	The Violence Inherent in the System

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gentleman Jole And The Barrayaran Emperor.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387199) by [Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels). 



> Inspired by Lanna Michael’s _Gentleman Jole And The Barrayaran Emperor_ , or more accurately her pre-publication discussion of the concept. I couldn’t make “Gregor/Jole on the _Prince Serg_ ” work for me in canon, because of the power imbalance issues, sooo through the Mirror it goes!
> 
> As in Venereal Transmission of Power, the dubcon consists of a power imbalance making it essentially impossible for the person on the short end of that stick (Jole) to say no, but he doesn’t want to anyway. All sexual activities in the fic are enjoyed at all times by both parties.

The battle around Vervain, and the subsequent diplomatic mop-up, kept both Gregor and Admiral Count Vorkosigan busy enough that they were able to avoid each other for almost a week. This was something of an achievement on a military ship, even one the size of the _Prince Serg_ , but Gregor had put his mind to it, and his restored ImpSec shadows were eager to be accommodating.

Gregor knew he couldn’t put it off forever, but he was not looking forward to their eventual conversation. He had no intention of explaining himself to his own Prime Minister, especially at this stage, but he knew that Count Vorkosigan would not suffer being brushed aside for too long. He didn’t want things to come to a head too aggressively, however. He liked Aral, and valued his political advice, and he didn’t have a lot of relatives to spare; he wanted to avoid executing his uncle for treasonous insubordination if at all possible. After their dynamic shift during the battle itself, he thought he could get Aral to come to heel with a proper conversation, and it would be much easier to have that in space, with the privacy and lack of extraneous government distractions afforded by their distance from the capital.

As the clean-up was winding down, Gregor invited Count Vorkosigan to his personal stateroom after dinner. Despite the ship’s hurried departure from drydock, the Imperial quarters were very well-appointed. Except for a few stray bulkhead seams, and the characteristic hiss of the shipboard air circulation, Gregor could almost believe they were in some secondary Residence parlor, complete with brocade sofa and armchairs. The only thing missing was a fireplace.

Thankfully, the completeness of the suite’s decor extended to its provisioning as well. The ImpSec sergeant standing in for Gregor’s armsmen retrieved several bottles of excellent wine - though _not_ Vorkosigan red, for this - and arranged them on the sideboard with their glasses. Gregor didn’t intend to need all of them, but it was hard to predict exactly how this conversation would go.

At the appointed hour, the sergeant admitted Count Vorkosigan, and then showed himself out at Gregor’s nod. This was not a conversation for unnecessary witnesses.

Gregor had deliberately directed his temporary batman not to open any of the bottles. The necessity of Count Vorkosigan doing so himself, complete with the obligatory first taste, served to move them both through their greetings and into their seats with blessedly minimal small talk. The weight of the past few weeks hung too heavily in the room for that to be at all bearable.

“You’ve done very well this week, Sire,” Count Vorkosigan said, settling into his chair and regarding Gregor with steady eyes. “Your grandfather would be proud of you. I certainly am.”

Gregor took that for the compliment it was, flattery notwithstanding. His former Regent had always been careful to position himself as someone Gregor ought to look up to, for strategic as well as personal reasons, and it had worked a bit too well for too long. Nevertheless, anyone who could ride the tiger of the Imperium as long as Aral Vorkosigan had was worth looking up to, and while the Count might choose his words for tactical effect, the content was always sincere. As long as he confined any subtly condescending word choices to private conversations, Gregor was prepared to overlook them. Aral had preserved both Gregor’s life and his position, and he could easily take both of them away again if Gregor crossed him too badly. Gregor had been rather counting on that, at the beginning of this whole adventure, but now that he was going to come back and be the Emperor again, he wasn’t going to do it as a puppet, and certainly not as a corpse.

“Thank you, Count Vorkosigan,” Gregor said, returning his gaze pointedly. “It’s always good to know my advisors approve of my actions.”

Vorkosigan conceded the point with a bare flick of his lips, mostly hidden by his wine glass. The hint of sardonic levity fled almost as soon as it arrived, however, and his face turned grim. “I’ve always known you would be equal to your responsibilities, Sire, and I’m gratified to see my assumptions borne out. And I’m very glad to have you back safely.” He paused, studying the wine in his glass. “In the interest of promoting the future security - and stability - of the Imperium, might we discuss how to avoid the, ah, initial piece of this adventure, in the future?”

Gregor took his time in responding. “You said my grandfather would be proud of me,” he said finally. “I’ll take your word for it; you remember him much better than I do.” He looked up at Vorkosigan, over the rim of his glass. “Would my father, do you think? You always had so much to say about his heroic exploits, when I asked. Though curiously, much less about the man himself, now that I think back. In hindsight.”

Vorkosigan let out a breath, looking away to find his response in the brocade pattern of the sofa. “Your father’s good opinion wasn’t worth the flattery it would have taken to get it,” he said, with unexpected candor this early in the conversation. “As you apparently already know. Is that the cause of all this?”

“That is not the impression you deliberately gave me, Count Vorkosigan,” Gregor said tightly, ignoring his question. “It was not a pleasant shock to discover the truth, especially in a diplomatic reception on Komarr, of all places.”

Vorkosigan shut his eyes and exhaled, steadying his glass on the arm of his chair. “We should have told you,” he said. “I should have overruled Cordelia on the subject. She thought that sort of thing was inappropriate for children.”

Gregor raised an eyebrow. “But it was appropriate to leave your Emperor in the dark about the galactic reputation of his relatives, for which the galactics in question have actual proof? I might have made a complete fool out of myself, if I hadn’t been so shocked.”

Vorkosigan winced slightly, trying and failing to cover it with a gulp of wine. “What exactly did you hear?”

His emotion was clearly genuine. If Gregor hadn’t considered this conversation a keystone of his own future power base, he might have expressed sympathy. 

“A number of highly interesting observations about my father’s behavior with various Escobaran prisoners,” he said instead, in answer. “Coupled with the fascinating opinion that there was at least one person in the Nexus whose parenting would have been even worse than the Butcher of Komarr’s. And speaking of parenting - it occurred to me, then, that I can’t remember ever seeing my mother smile. Before, I would have assumed it was grief over losing her dear, heroic husband. Now…” He trailed off meaningfully. The humorless crook of his own lips was a parody of the expression.

Vorkosigan looked like he wanted to drain his glass indecorously, but instead leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, away from his casual reach. “Your father was not known for his self-restraint,” he said heavily. “Nor, it must be said, for his sense of responsibility, civic or familial. Even to your grandfather. You are, in all respects, a considerable improvement. I meant what I said, Sire; your grandfather _would_ be proud of you. He was not proud of Serg.”

“And you don’t find my genetic inheritance from him concerning?”

“You also have a genetic inheritance from your grandfather,” Vorkosigan replied. “And from your mother, whose Vorinnis relatives are generally regarded as very steady, if occasionally uninspiring. And I have watched you grow for twenty years, Sire, into a man whose intelligence and honor fit the position that is his birthright. No, I am not concerned.”

“Hmm,” Gregor said. “I was.”

Vorkosigan looked at him. “Sire,” he said quietly. “What did you do?”

Gregor weighed his answer. He wasn’t about to admit that he had jumped; he wanted Aral to give way once they were back in Vorbarr Sultana, not manage him even more closely. And if Cordelia caught any hint of such a justification for therapy, he’d never hear the end of it.

“I left,” he said finally. He left the stark answer unadorned; let Aral fill in the blanks with speculation, for once.

Vorkosigan’s eyes snapped to his. Gregor was sure one of the visions dancing through his head was close to the truth, courtesy of Cordelia’s lessons on more Betan possibilities. He said nothing, however, though the air between them gained an almost palpable charge. 

Thankfully, Vorkosigan broke first, before any lightning could materialize.

“When I accepted the Regency,” he said quietly, “I swore to your grandfather, among other things, to protect you. And I hope you know, Sire, how seriously I have always taken my oaths to your family. But you are beyond the age when I can protect you from yourself.”

As Vorkosigan had been too young to make any oaths to Yuri, his assessment of his oaths was perfectly true. Gregor refrained from further comment, or response. He wasn’t going to play the supplicant in this conversation, but even more than that, he had no idea what to say. The silence stretched, taut but no longer electric, until Vorkosigan spoke again.

“ _Why?_ ” he asked, his low voice just shy of breaking under the intensity.

Gregor took some time to answer. “You’re not the only one who takes his oaths seriously, Count Vorkosigan,” he said at last. “On Komarr, I briefly became convinced that it would be impossible for me to keep mine - to behave with the honor necessary for the liege lord of three planets and sixty million souls. I worried I was doomed to failure and dishonor.” He met Vorkosigan’s gaze, pointedly. “Like my father before me.”

Vorkosigan’s jaw tightened. “I hope that worry has been answered to your satisfaction, Sire,” he said.

“How could it have?” Gregor said. “I have only your own analysis against it. While I trust your judgment, I’m not sure I can rest my entire honor on that singular foundation.”

“You have before now, Sire, and I hope you have been satisfied with the result,” Vorkosigan said tightly, and then sighed. “I blame myself. If we had told you about Serg years ago, or at least when you came of age, this would never have happened. Any version of the truth more comprehensive than diplomats’ gossip would have shown you just how ridiculous that comparison is. You are not in the least like Serg, Sire, and you’ve been proving it for years. That’s never been anyone’s concern.”

“How can you possibly be sure?”

“ _Because_ , in addition to his personal shortcomings, Serg had no conception of duty, and was frankly categorically incompetent at any sort of politics more complex than backbiting - and he spent years in the capital demonstrating both. For god’s sake, Gregor, surely you think better of yourself than that. You’ve grown tremendously since Vordrozda.”

Gregor glared at him. “Let’s not relitigate my aptitude, thank you. It’s precisely his ‘personal shortcomings’ that are the problem.” His grip on his wine glass was perhaps tighter than was wise.

Vorkosigan huffed, retrieving his wine glass form the table. “He did have a regrettable tendency to misdirect his more destructive impulses, yes. A tendency that you _don’t share_.”

“You don’t know that.”

Vorkosigan’s glass paused halfway to his mouth. “Whatever _impulses_ you may have, Sire, you haven’t been misdirecting them. Or directing them anywhere, for that matter; I would have known.”

“My armsmen don’t answer to you,” Gregor said. “Even if Illyan does. I could have buried any number of bodies in the Residence gardens without your hearing a word.”

The glass completed its journey, though Vorkosigan did not return it to the coffee table. “But you haven’t,” he said firmly. “I wasn’t referring to my information, Sire, but to my evaluation of your character. You may be a sadist - I thankfully have no visibility into that sort of personal detail - but you’re not a bully. Or a butcher.”

“And if I am a sadist,” Gregor said, deliberately relaxing his grip on his wine glass to a less concerning level. “You don’t think that’s a problem?”

“As I said earlier, Serg’s main difficulty - apart from his lack of responsibility - was his regrettable choice of targets. I wouldn’t even put the Escobarans at the top of that list, frankly, though he ought at least to have waited until afterwards.” Vorkosigan shrugged. “You have every sense of propriety that he lacked. If you do have such desires, I trust you to direct them properly, in a way that won’t implicate any concerns of honor, or of state.”

Gregor raised an eyebrow. “And properly-directed sadism implicates no concerns of honor?”

Vorkosigan sighed irritably, clearly wanting to avoid the meat of the topic. “Didn’t Cordelia talk to you about this, with the rest of her ‘personal relationships curriculum’?”

“She confined her discussions to things I was likely to do with my future wife,” Gregor said drily. “And as I would never do any such thing with _her_ , it didn’t come up. Give me some credit, Aral, please.”

“If I’m giving you credit already, Sire, can I not give you enough to cover your relationships with your subjects, as well?” Vorkosigan quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve always been properly responsible with your liegemen, and I don’t think that’s going to change just because you’ve got a more complete family history. You know the difference between exercising authority and causing gratuitous damage.”

Gregor’s face was skeptical.

“Serg never had any self-control,” Vorkosigan continued, “and what little he might have had, his associates eroded. But you’re not like them, and I would know. You were handling your emotions better at six.”

“I might get there later,” said Gregor, glowering at the coffee table through his wine glass. “‘Power corrupts,’ isn’t that the Betan saying?”

“I should never have let her teach you that,” Vorkosigan said. “It smacks of handling. And in any case, Betan idioms are singularly inapplicable here. Power may corrupt others, but you’re the Emperor; you hold it by right, there’s no such thing.”

“There’s such a thing as irresponsible and abusive leadership, Aral,” said the Emperor, annoyed. “As you very well know, given my father. I don’t want to fall down the same gravity well.”

His Prime Minister took his own turn contemplating the surface of the coffee table, his brow furrowed. “Serg was a very lackluster politician,” he said slowly, “but his most scandalous shortcomings were in the personal realm. You know you can handle the politics, so I assume that your primary concern is that your, ah, personal gratification, is not compatible with the responsible use of your authority.”

“Well, _yes_ , Count Vorkosigan,” said Gregor, with some asperity. “That’s only what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole time.”

“Happily,” Vorkosigan continued, as though his irritable liege lord hadn’t spoken, “the solution to this problem is very simple. If you want to ensure that you’re not indulging your own desires at the expense of your subjects’ welfare, you need only find a subject whose, ah, welfare, encompasses your desires. Given the general Barrayan sense of fealty, especially among the military, this is less difficult than you appear to think. In fact, I’ve found that a properly devoted subordinate can be a solution to any number of problems - as I’m sure he’d be happy to demonstrate.”

Gregor narrowed his eyes. His Prime Minister’s relationship with his secretary was not news to him, though he’d never given the specifics any thought. 

“You’re going to throw Lieutenant Jole at me and tell me to do my worst?” he asked. “Aren’t you afraid of what condition you’ll get him back in?”

“Not remotely, Sire.”

“Hmph.” Gregor settled back into his chair and retrieved his own wine glass. If Aral were intent on this manner of convincing him, it would be easier to let it play out than to try and argue. After all, he didn’t actually have to do anything with his Prime Minister’s pet prole if he decided not to, much less do anything in particular. 

On the other hand, it might turn out to be fun, or at least informative. He hadn’t taken anyone to bed in weeks, other than Cavilo - and as enjoyable as that had been, it would be nice to play with someone without needing to watch his own back. And, truly, whatever misgivings he might have about his own self-control or sense of honor, he knew Aral's was finely tuned. Count Vorkosigan would never put any subordinate as competent and loyal as his secretary in the path of gratuitous harm. Gregor supposed he might as well take this show of faith in the reassuring spirit it was intended.

Without waiting for any of Gregor’s ruminations to boil over into further objection, Vorkosigan touched the commtab on his lapel that would summon his secretary. Lieutenant Jole entered almost immediately; he must have been waiting in the antechamber. 

On seeing the two Vor, one of them his Emperor, eyeing him so intently, Lieutenant Jole came to a truly impressive level of attention. Gregor noticed his sudden swallow, and thought he could detect, even at this distance, a slight widening of his eyes. Aroused, Gregor thought, and not a bit intimidated. The mixture was concerningly intoxicating. Jole was attractive enough on a purely aesthetic level, but his reaction was blood in the water as far as Gregor was concerned. He wanted to take Jole apart; he wanted to hear him beg to be destroyed. He was alarmingly certain of his ability to do so, even without being asked. He took refuge in his wine glass briefly, while Vorkosigan addressed Jole himself.

“Are you a loyal subject of the Emperor, Lieutenant?” 

“Of course, sir.”

“Would you like to serve him personally?”

The widening of Jole’s eyes was obvious now, and his lips parted, seemingly by reflex. Gregor admired the resulting curve of his mouth.

“It would be my honor, sir. Sire.”

“He really means that,” Gregor remarked to Aral, only mildly surprised.

“Lieutenant Jole is a devoted subject of the Imperium, who knows exactly where he belongs,” Vorkosigan replied, with the ghost of his own satisfaction on his lips. “If you spent more time getting to know the crew, you'd find he isn’t the only one on your flagship eager to get on his knees and put patriotic theory into practice.”

“Hmm.” Gregor turned his attention back to the officer in front of him, putting on a shade of Imperial formality just to test the results. “Is Our Prime Minister’s assessment accurate, Lieutenant? Would you enjoy kneeling for Us?”

Jole’s knees almost buckled spontaneously. 

Gregor found a small smile spreading sideways across his lips. The Lieutenant’s desire was almost palpable in the stateroom. Gregor had never encountered anything like it. He wanted to wrap it like a leash around the lieutenant’s neck, to drag him in for a kiss full of teeth, to taste his lust and submission and devour it. 

He’d probably have to settle for more prosaic forms of interaction, but it was a nice thought.

“I suppose I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, turning to Vorkosigan again. 

“You should,” Vorkosigan replied. “Now, unless there’s anything else you need at the moment…”

“No, thank you, Count Vorkosigan,” Gregor said drily. “This is quite enough.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” He stood, leaving his glass on the side table. “Send him back to my stateroom when you’re done with him, Sire, if you’d be so kind.”

“It may not be until morning,” Gregor said. “If he’s as enthusiastic as you claim.”

Vorkosigan shot him an amused look. “Nevertheless. I’m sure he’s young enough to report for duty even missing some sleep.”

Gregor inclined his head in acknowledgement and dismissal.

With only a brief glance at his secretary, Count Vorkosigan swept out of the stateroom, past Gregor’s newly reinstalled ImpSec detail on the other side. The door slid shut behind him, and Gregor and Jole were alone.


End file.
